Save the Mexicans, Wendy Testaburger!
by mattmetzger
Summary: Cartman is going to get rid of those god-damn Mexicans, once and for all. Wendy is the only one who can stop him. And Kyle is hoping for a journalistic scoop on the first man to die from ass cancer. Warnings: crack and flippancy.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: The first chapter of a story designed to be taken with as much severity and realism as South Park itself.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, and make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**Save the Mexicans, Wendy Testaburger!**

**One**

He had changed, Wendy surmised, but not enough that she didn't recognise him instantly.

She had not seen Kyle since his wedding, thirteen years ago. They were both thirty-six now, pushing the mid-life crisis and, in Wendy's case, wondering where it had all gone. For thirteen years, she had not set eyes on Kyle Broflovski, nor spoken to him or even emailed him. For all Wendy knew, he could have been dead - though she was sure she would have gotten the news through the grapevine eventually.

But she glimpsed him from the coffee house where they had agreed to meet, clear across the park from the gate at which he entered it. It was late summer, the leaves turning gold, and his hair was still red enough to look as if someone had set fire to his head. He was as tall as he had been on his wedding day, though his posture not so ramrod straight, and his gait more casual. As he neared, however, the lines on his face became apparent around the prominent nose he had inherited from his mother, and the set of his mouth was grim.

Time had not healed Kyle Broflovski.

Wendy didn't much know the details. She knew Bebe well, still - they had maintained their friendship, despite the years and lifestyle differences. But Kyle...no, Wendy had lost touch with Kyle. As such, she had little idea of what had really happened. All she knew, really, was that thirteen years ago, Kyle Broflovski and Bebe Stevens had married.

And ten years ago, almost to the day, they had divorced.

The final blow, Wendy imagined, was that in two weeks, Bebe had changed her Facebook relationship status from 'married to Kyle Broflovski', to 'single', to 'it's complicated', to 'in a relationship with Stan Marsh.'

Kyle had promptly deleted his Facebook and vanished from, seemingly, everyone's lives. And for ten years, Wendy hadn't heard a word from him.

She hadn't been surprised at his silence - she and Kyle were never close. They were amicable, if they had to be, and strangers most of the time. Without Stan and Bebe to connect them, they would next-to-never have spoken. It was Bebe to invite Wendy to the wedding, and Bebe to tell Wendy about their divorce. She had never expected Kyle to stay in contact with her once those ties were severed.

So to pick up the phone yesterday afternoon, and be greeted with Kyle's voice after ten years..._that _was surprising.

He stepped into the coffee house, spotted her in a heartbeat, and joined her by the window.

Up close, he looked stressed. Kyle had always been prone to stress, but age had been the physical evidence of stress worse. With the receding hairline, the Jewish nose, and the bridge of his nose bruised from pinching it, he looked almost ill.

"Why did you call?"

No point, Wendy thought, in beating around the bush. Kyle wanted to talk about something in particular, and they had very little in the way of pleasantries to exchange anyway.

Regardless: in Wendy's experience, people tended to treat the friends of their ex-wives with more than a touch of suspicion and disdain.

"I needed to talk to you," Kyle said.

"About what?"

"About one of your patients."

Wendy drew herself up. "Alright," she said. "Firstly, what do you know about my work? And secondly, I can't tell you anything about my patients. It's called _doctor-patient confidentiality_, Kyle, and..."

Kyle cut her off with a wave. "I know, I know. But for this guy, you'll make an exception."

Wendy narrowed her eyes.

"You've just taken over a load of cases from Dr. James after she's started maternity leave. Several of them have just come in and you're busy diagnosing them or waiting on test results. This guy is getting his test results from you on Monday, and they're positive for cancer."

Wendy's jaw went slack.

Kyle smirked.

"How did you...?"

"I have my contacts."

Wendy thought furiously. Kyle had just gotten a job in economic journalism when he married Bebe, she remembered. They had moved to New York due to his job not four months after the wedding. Bebe had been smug about it, saying she had a husband working on Wall Street who _didn't _lose them hundreds of dollars by waving at the wrong moment.

But where would economic journalism get him here?

"You..." she began.

"Wendy," he leaned forward earnestly, and there was a flash of that brilliant mind through his eyes, just for a moment. For a moment, he didn't look so tired. "I've been watching this guy for years. He is a dangerous, bad man. And I need you to stop his latest shit. And if you're with me on this, it's the _last time _he'll endanger _anyone_. Ever."

Wendy swallowed.

"Who?" she asked.

She hated herself for asking. Hated herself for even considering the matter _that _long. It didn't matter _who _- a doctor ignored everything about a patient but his health! She could not possibly condone anything Kyle was suggesting here, because...

"Eric Cartman."

Oh.

Never mind.

* * *

Wendy let herself, nudged the cat out of the way with her foot, and slammed the door.

Slamming doors didn't get any less satisfying as one got older. Except for the lack of parental figures in whose faces to slam the doors. But, as Wendy had left home at eighteen and never looked back, she couldn't really remember the difference.

She dropped onto the couch and turned on the TV. Then turned it off again. Not only was there nothing interesting on, but Simone would only come down and thieve the remote if she thought Wendy was enjoying TV without her. God, Simone could be a cow. She'd met Simone at college, at the university debating club, drunk. So, yeah, Wendy knew that Simone had a permanent hourglass-worth of sand in her vagina, and never emptied it out.

Hell, Simone could be _Bebe _when she was feeling bitchy enough.

Instead, Wendy drummed her fingers on the arm of the couch, and wondered how to handle what Kyle had told her.

Oh, he'd had no proof - of course he hadn't - but...when it came to Cartman and what he was up to, Kyle had never fostered a tendency to lie. It hadn't surprised Wendy that he'd kept tabs on the fatass since they'd all moved away - someone had to do it. And this latest supposed scheme of Cartman's was just up his street.

In fact, in light of some of the things he'd done in the past, this was a pretty light one.

But could Wendy harm a patient for it?

Because that's what he was. If she got in on Monday, and found Eric Cartman on her new patient list, then he would be her patient. Not her enemy, or her weird grade-school crush, or the annoying fat bastard constantly on the other side of the debate forum. Her _patient_.

Could she harm a _patient_?

"Harm the patient," Kyle had said, "and you'll save thousands and thousands of lives."

"Lives that don't exist yet."

"Save your patient, and they never will," Kyle had said firmly, and Wendy knew that he was right.

But it sounded so...so...so pro-life. So anti-abortion. So...Republican.

Kill Cartman (or let him die, but in this instance, Wendy didn't suppose that there was much difference) and save the lives of future children - but, importantly, children that had not even been conceived yet. Children that didn't _exist _yet.

Because, according to Kyle, Cartman was pouring money, time and expertise into experiment drug research and development. And his current (and, terribly, somewhat successful) project was a drug designed to turn people gay. And he was going to use it on America's minority populations.

Hello, black/Hispanic/Asian America: you are now gay.

Yeah, right up Cartman's alley.

And according to Kyle, Wendy was the only one who could _stop _him.

* * *

"So how about you give me your number?" Kenny grinned. "Your personal number, that is, not your 1-800-NICE-ASS number that every passing Joe gets, huh?"

The receptionist leaned warily away from him. Unfortunately, the angle showed off a lot more cleavage than her previous one, so it was hardly dissuading.

"So sorry," Kyle said, hooking a hand under Kenny's elbow and peeling him off the reception desk. "Been looking everywhere for him. He didn't take his medication, and then got away from the poor nurse. Her first day, too."

The reception gave him an uneasy smile, even as Kenny protested.

"Dude, come on," Kyle muttered, hauling him towards the exit. "I met with Wendy yesterday."

"Wendy? As in, Testy Burger? As in, shoots people into the sun?"

"As in, Cartman's doctor," Kyle said.

"Oh. _That _Wendy."

Kyle rolled his eyes.

"So," Kenny said, shaking his arm free, sticking his hands in the pockets (generously speaking) of his jeans and falling into obedient stride. "She agreed to do it?"

"She's agreed to postpone his appointment until I can give her proof," Kyle said. "Which is where you come in."

"Of course," Kenny rolled his eyes. "Why me?"

"Because the police haven't got _your _DNA on file."

Kenny snickered. "Dude. That was a fucking awesome night out."

"For you. I ended up with community service after _your _bar fight. And they'll _still _have my records."

"Well, yeah. It was only twelve years ago. Duh," Kenny said, then ducked the swipe at his head. "Fine. So, what, I break in and swipe some of his records of the experiments?"

"Sample of the drug, too, if you can get it. Latest one, obviously."

"I know that face," Kenny stopped in the middle of the street. "You're going to test it on some poor schmuck."

Kyle shrugged.

Kenny grinned. "I _have _to be there. You going to spike Wendy's drink?"

Kyle thought about it, then shrugged. "I guess the world doesn't need more of that voice."

"Deal," Kenny said, and laughed like a madman in the middle of the street. People started to go around him. "Dude, even if the fatass does succeed in his stupid plan to get an all-white America, I am going to fucking love watching Wendy go dyke."

* * *

A week after Cartman's initial (and frustrating) appointment with Wendy, she met Kyle once more in the little cafe, and he placed a brown folder and a flask in front of her.

"There you have it," he said. "Cartman's gay drug. And once it's completed, he's going to supply it to every minority member - and immigrant - of the USA that he can. And in fifty years, bang. An all-white America."

Wendy picked up the flask and shook it gingerly, hearing the innocent sloshing of liquid inside.

"Well," she murmured. "I guess it's save the Mexicans, Wendy Testaburger."

Kyle grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**Two**

Cartman was Wendy's third appointment of the day.

And he nearly broke the doorframe getting into the consulting room.

Fatass had...well. A fat ass.

And a fat everything else.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, it's you," he grumbled.

"Who else did you think 'Dr. Testaburger' was going to be?" Wendy said tartly.

Cartman snorted.

"Regardless of our history, Eric, I am your doctor and I am sworn to the Hippocratic Oath. Our history is meaningless in this room."

"Whatever," he said, and Wendy could have sworn he added 'skanky bitch' under his breath. "I came for my results, not a heart-to-bleeding-heart."

"Yes, well," Wendy shuffled her papers. "Your results were poorly processed, I'm afraid. The blood test in particular was inconclusive. I mean...we know...I'm sorry to sound callous, but we know you _have _it. We just...don't know how _bad _it is at the moment."

Cartman's scowl nearly swallowed his eyes. "What kind of piece-of-shit gay-ass Mexican-sandhole hospital is this?"

"One with trainees," Wendy said calmly. "I'm rushing the rest of your results, Eric, and..." She scribbled out the form, "if you'll just pop over to the blood centre and have another vial taken, then we can move things along much faster."

"And until then, what? Wait until my god-damn prostate is the size of a fucking _melon _before I get to see a fucking surgeon?" Cartman demanded. His _voice _hadn't changed either, and Wendy had to refrain from wincing.

"It won't be that long. I'll call you to set up another appointment when I get your proper results and time to discuss the options with my colleagues," Wendy said, fighting not to revert to her childhood and call him an ungrateful fat son-of-a-whore.

When he snatched the form from her and stormed out, frightening the waiting room full of other patients, Wendy did let herself mutter it under her breath.

Jesus, maybe Kyle had the right fucking idea.

* * *

Cartman was the head of a research department in a minor pharmaceutical company that only kept afloat by selling cheap-as-crap contraceptives to GlaxoSmithKline.

As such, the security was laughable.

Kenny had been breaking-and-entering on a semi-professional basis for the last fifteen years of his life. He was _good_. He'd busted open way better and bigger places than this: getting into Cartman's labs was a _joke_, it really was. Hell, he could probably get laid in here and still not get caught.

This was a walk in the park.

One pair of bolt clippers and a power cut later, and Kenny was rifling through Cartman's own personal office. And Cartman, for all his paranoia and usual sense about everything black-market and criminal, had an _ego_.

Kenny knew the fatass, and when he surfaced from that desk with a folder full of papers on research into a 'homosexuality drug to prevent excessive pregnancy rates in third-world countries', he knew he'd got it.

Third-world countries his _ass_.

Wait, was Louisiana third-world?

Well, whatever, it wasn't a _country_. So his mental point stood.

Getting a sample was slightly tricker. Clearly, Cartman's lab was a) staffed with doctors, so suffered from terrible handwritten labels, and b) stuffed to the air-conditioned gills with other edgy research into sex, babies, and fudgepackers. Kenny filched a couple of tubes labelled 'sex drive boost: female only' while he was at it.

Hey, he wasn't exactly getting paid for Kyle's scheme. He'd like to see Cartman fail and die as much as the next guy, but why not get a little extra out of it while you can?

Eventually, however, he found samples ('untested, do not consume') of the drug that Kyle was after, and stared it, swilling it around in the 'borrowed' beaker for a while.

It looked like vodka.

And it was probably roughly as effective. No wonder the Russians lost the Cold War.

Once upon a time (like, when he was sixteen) Kenny would have pondered the ethical ramifications of what he was doing. He knew that Cartman would die if Wendy went along with Kyle's plan. Wendy would go along with Kyle's plan if Kenny gave them this drug sample. So if Kenny stole this sample, Cartman would die. Sure, thousands upon thousands of minorities would still be able to have babies - but those babies _hadn't been born yet_. They hadn't even been _conceived_. They were killing a man to save non-existent people.

Once upon a time, this would have given Kenny quite a problem. Except for two things:

a) He had been a criminal too long to get on his high horse about ethics and whatnot. And he totally hadn't paid attention to ethics in school anyway.

b) It was Cartman.

Kenny pocketed the samples, and got the hell out of there.

* * *

Wendy met Kenny and Kyle in the same coffee house, with Kenny shaking like an alcoholic deprived of vodka for too long.

"He needs caffeine," Kyle explained, and went to get coffee.

"So...you're in on Kyle's plan too?" Wendy asked Kenny gingerly.

"Sure," Kenny said. "Who wouldn't be? It's fatass."

"But why is Kyle so...wound up? He hasn't _seen _Eric in years."

"Sure," Kenny repeated. "But how do you think Kyle knows about Cartman's research? It wasn't _originally _a gay drug at all. Cartman stumbled across that one."

"What...?" Wendy began, but Kenny shook his head, and Kyle brought their drinks over.

"Here," Kenny said, pushing a file across the table. "Cartman's research notes. Records a load of tests, animal cases - couple of human ones, too. It's moving along."

Wendy flicked through it, eyebrows raised.

"You have a sample?" she asked crisply.

"Right here," Kenny waved a flask at her.

"You broke in."

"Of course I did."

She shook her head and turned to Kyle. "Look. I'll look over the notes tonight. But..._if _I'm convinced...what do you want me to do?"

"Convince Cartman there's no point seeking treatment. That's he'll die anyway. Then he _will_. That's all I need you to do, Wendy, I promise. Just stop him taking treatment for his cancer, and that's it."

Wendy pondered. "It's...it's pretty advanced. The tests...how did you know?"

"I'm a journalist. I have contacts. _Everywhere_."

"Yeah, Kyle here makes the FBI and CIA look like pussies," Kenny said, then swivelled to watch a girl outside. "Speaking of which...be right back."

He nipped out, and Kyle poured half the flask into Kenny's abandoned coffee.

"_Kyle_!" Wendy gasped.

"You want proof, you'll get it," Kyle said, and winked. "He thinks I'm doing it to you."

Wendy pursed her lips.

"Wendy, you can't let Cartman develop this thing," Kyle urged. "I _told _you what he wants to do with it. He's going to - no luck?"

Kenny grunted and retook his seat, slurping at his cooling coffee enthusiastically. "S'okay. Tits aren't big enough anyway."

Kyle shrugged and turned back to Wendy.

"There you have it," he said. "Cartman's gay drug. And once it's completed, he's going to supply it to every minority member - and immigrant - of the USA that he can. And in fifty years, bang. An all-white America."

Wendy picked up the flask and shook it gingerly, hearing the innocent sloshing of liquid inside.

"Well," she murmured. "I guess it's save the Mexicans, Wendy Testaburger."

Kyle grinned.

* * *

When Wendy pulled up into her drive, there was a shadowy figure sitting on her porch. For a moment, she stiffened, suddenly wary, until he looked up and got up, and the motion-sensitive light went on.

"Stan!" she exclaimed.

He smiled lopsidedly at her. Wendy still made a point to see Stan at least once a month - after the nuclear holocaust that had been the Kyle-Bebe-Stan triangular mess (that made college calculus look great) Wendy had been keen to have Stan remember that not everyone thought he was a cruel and heartless bastard, or that he'd necessarily stolen Bebe from Kyle.

Because Wendy knew Bebe really _was _that fickle with her men, sometimes.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, after their hug and her overly-cultured kiss on each cheek. (He needed a shave.) "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, not really," Stan said.

"Come on in, I've..."

"No, Wends, it'll only take a minute," Stan shifted nervously and scratched at his messy dark hair. "I just...Bebe mentioned that you met up with Kyle recently."

"Yes," Wendy said warily.

Stan swallowed and shrugged and said. "Well. How's he doing?"

"He's...he's okay," Wendy said cautiously. She didn't know exactly how Stan and Kyle handled each other any more, but she suspected (and Stan's behaviour was affirming) that they didn't speak much now.

"Okay," Stan deflated a little. "Right. Okay."

"Stan?"

"What?"

"Do you...do you and Kyle...when did _you _last see him?"

Stan swallowed again - nervous habit? - and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Oh. Not...not that long ago. Um..."

"_Stan_."

"About three years," Stan blurted out.

Wendy nearly dropped her bag. "Three _years_?"

"It's just...shit, Wendy, it's awkward as hell whenever I see him and we can't...we can't _talk _any more. But he's still my _friend_ and I just...look. Okay. He's okay?"

"Yeah," Wendy said helplessly. "He's, um. He's doing okay."

"Okay," Stan nodded, then smiled. "Sorry on dropping by like this. I'll be off now. You...say hi for me, when you next see him?"

Wendy nodded and hugged him again.

"Come by next weekend," she pleaded. "Even I don't see enough of you any more. Come and catch up, have a chatter like we used to."

Because that was the epitome of Stan to nearly _everyone _now: like we used to. That ten-year-old mess had...well, messed things up. A lot of things. And God knew that men were no good at clearing the air without it descending into a barfight or something ridiculous like that.

Wendy waved Stan off, waited until the car headlights were well and truly gone, and closed the door with a sigh.

Stan was the one thing she regretted about her life. In a way, she still loved him, and she suspected that she always would. He was _her _Stan, and held a special place in her heart.

But people grew up and grew apart, and neither of them were the same person any more. They wouldn't work. And while sometimes - like tonight - he looked like the boy with the messy hair and the sheepish grin that she'd fallen for all those years ago, he wasn't the same man. She could love him from afar, easily, and she would. Living _with _him, loving him _now_, would tarnish that affection with the reality that they weren't the same people, and they weren't compatible any more.

No, let Bebe have him, and let Wendy keep her sweet, untarnished version of Stan in her head. A version that had never been sullied by arguments and fights and nasty break-ups and...and...

A version that wasn't to them like Kyle and Bebe were to each other. A version where it was still okay, even if they couldn't be together.

And nowadays, it wasn't Stan that Wendy _loved _anyway.

* * *

Late on Thursday evening, Facebook came alive with evidence that Wendy found difficult to dispute.

_Kenny McCormick is now friends with Ben Michaels, Scott Allmande, and 7 other people._

That in itself was not, of course, evidence. But the fact that every one of the men that Kenny had newly befriended professed on their own profiles to be interested in men (and only men) was somewhat more suspect. Still, Wendy had lesbian friends. Wendy _lived _with a lesbian. It didn't make _Wendy _a lesbian.

_Kenny McCormick has changed his 'interested in.'_

To, it would seem, women _and _men. Well, that was somewhat more convincing.

And the message that Wendy received roughly ten seconds later, also sent to Kyle, was even more convincing.

_I hate the fucking both of you! Kyle, you asshole, you didn't spike Wendy's drink, you spiked mine! When I get my hands on you, I am going to choke you until you turn the same colour as Ike's face at your wedding when Bebe's Mom served up sausage rolls! YOU UNDERSTAND ME, YOU CIRCUMCISED COCKSUCKER?_

_And Wendy, you're included in this threat. Mainly him, but I bet you were in on it too._

Well, that was that, Wendy supposed.

Cartman had produced a drug that was at least semi-effective (perhaps not permanent, but definitely functional) in turning people gay.

And Kenny McCormick was gay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park and I make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**Three**

Kyle opened his apartment door, and promptly dropped his cup of coffee all over the floor. He didn't even notice the steaming liquid splash his jeans, or stain his hall, or the irritated shout from his neighbour at the sound of breaking ceramic.

No, Kyle's focus was on Kenny. Or, rather, the new Kenny.

The new Kenny, with his ass-hugging jeans, his colour-coordinated shirt and shoes, his tightly done belt, his combed and slicked back hair, his highlights, his fresh-out-of-the-studio ear piercing, his buffed nails - and _dear God_, had he actually _shaved_?

"Fuck!" Kyle exclaimed.

"Fuck_ you_," Kenny corrected, and shivered. "_Look at me_! Jesus fucking Christ, Kyle!"

"You better come in before anyone sees you," Kyle said hurriedly, and let him in. Last thing he needed nosy Mrs Parkinson downstairs thinking was that he was an _assramming_ Jewish neurotic. He wouldn't even know where to _begin _defending himself against _those _accusations.

"I think Wendy's got her fucking _proof_," Kenny snarled, sitting (gracefully!) on Kyle's beaten-up couch.

"Or her poof, as Pip would have said."

"Shove it."

"More your job than mine."

Kenny threw him a filthy look, and folded his arms. But not in the manly, _I-am-resisting-the-urge-to-punch-you _way. More in the girly, _I-am-having-a-major-mental-tantrum-right-now-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-about-it _way.

Fuck, but Kyle needed an aspirin.

"I have spent the whole weekend," Kenny said dangerously, "shagging men left, right and centre. _Without _being paid for it."

"Ouch," Kyle said.

"Yes, _ouch_!" Kenny snapped. "My ass hasn't felt this sore since that curry takeout in Denver at your stag do!"

Kyle thought about that. Then: "_OUCH_."

Kenny grunted.

"Well," Kyle said. "Look on the bright side. If this is what that drug's done to you, then imagine what it would have done to Wendy."

There was a short silence.

"Yeah, thanks for that, Kyle. Aspirin. Now."

Kyle nodded.

* * *

Bastards.

Bastards, bastards, motherfucking _bastards_! Goat-raping, Afghan-loving, towel-wearing _Communist Californian sons of Cuban whoremongers_!

Of all the people in the world, it had to be him, didn't it? It _had to be him_. That motherfucking British weirdo Christophe had the right idea: God was an asshole, and currently laughing His omnipotent _ass _off at Eric's situation.

He had things to _do_, damnit! He had an America to save - a proud America to free from its shackles of brown-peopled liberalism, with ten kids a household and no fucking jobs! An America that _didn't _want an all-brown Congress, or a slitty-eyed Senate! An America that wanted its fucking rights back, damnit, and not to be isolated and picked on _for being white_!

And then God gave him _this_.

Fucking _prostate _cancer. It wasn't even _used _for anything, except getting banged by liberal fags like Butters, and, quite frankly, Eric would rather marry a Mexican than get a dick up the ass. _Just_.

Just when he was almost ready to save his country from the stinking depths of a majority-brown population, God had to ram a finger full of cancer up his asshole, and doom him before he could properly get everything underway.

This was going to ruin _everything_.

And that bitch Testaburger had barely kept the smirk off her own holier-than-thou face.

Well quite frankly, God's immortal plan could go fuck itself and the Archangel Gabriel. Eric was not going to lie down and let a faggot cancer get him before he had put his work into action, and saved America.

If nothing else, he would die a hero.

Blood leaking out of his ass and all.

* * *

"Broflovski."

"Kyle, it's Wendy."

Kyle stopped typing and actually took hold of the phone instead of jamming it between his ear and shoulder. "Oh. Yeah, what is it?"

"No need to sound so thrilled," Wendy griped. "Look, it's about your plan to stop Cartman."

"Uh-huh."

"You need to stall."

"Stall? Why?"

"Because I just had another appointment with him," Wendy said. "It's aggressive, and it's advancing pretty fast without the treatment, but it's not fast enough. If you don't stall, he'll be able to finish his research and get it out there before he dies."

Kyle cursed.

"He's got at least three more months," Wendy said. "There's no way it's going to kill him inside of three months. Not a chance."

"Right," Kyle said slowly.

"You have to stall."

"We have to get the rest of his research away from him, as fast as possible."

Wendy snorted. "Oh come on, Kyle. This is _Cartman_. He's smarter than that - he'll have backed-up copies everywhere, from here to New York."

"Too many immigrants in New York."

She actually giggled at that, and Kyle was surprised. He hadn't been joking, after all.

"But you're right," Kyle said.

"You'll need to distract him."

It was Kyle's turn to snort. "Yeah, Wendy. Distract him. I'm good at that."

"Always were."

"Right. But I can only distract him for so long. If he's not onto us already, he soon will be. And it's been a long time since anyone _really _outfoxed the fatass. He's a fatass, and a bastard, but he's a clever one."

"Sure," Wendy said. "But I'm a doctor and you're a journalist. How clever can he be?"

Kyle thought about it. "Can you progress the illness? Give him things that are _bad _for him?"

Wendy barely hesitated: "Yes."

"Do it. Try and hurry things along."

"And what'll you do?"

"I'll figure something out."

* * *

Kyle put down the phone, and sat back in his office chair, drumming his fingers on the desk. He had been working on a report for his old paper in New York on 'backwards-ass-wooden-huts-and-shooting-folk economics, our folks like to feel posh now and then, so you give them the report saying why the hick end of Colorado's so shit, okay, Broflovski?' when Wendy had called.

Now, it seemed, he had to change the direction of his own magazine.

He grinned and cracked his knuckles. While New York paid well, Denver was where he'd realised his talent for getting the attention of said hicks in a damning, alarmist report. Throw in a bribe to the producers of the local news, and the whole thing would snowball spectacularly.

The thing about hicks was that they were stupid. South Park were no exception - in fact, if anything, South Park backed up the theory to a stupid level. They would believe anything if he named a couple of doctors who supported the notion (Wendy), produced a couple of papers saying the same thing (get Heidi to go along with him, which was easy when armed with chocolate and dirt on her ex-husband) and sounded flippant enough.

Because South Park hicks _liked _people being flippant with them.

'Obesity leads to prostate cancer'?

No way.

'Fatassery equals ass cancer.' That was the way to go.

* * *

Wendy put down the phone and sat back on her couch. She was alone again, to contemplate her lonely life, and think about new developments.

Kyle had told her all about Kenny, by now, and Kenny's Facebook was telling her everything that Kyle didn't. So Wendy knew the drug had worked beyond all expectations. It had _miraculously _worked.

And it had given Wendy ideas.

Wendy's loneliness was similar to Kyle's loneliness. She was in love, and the object thereof didn't want to know. But unlike Kyle's loneliness, Wendy could now _change _that. Before, being in love with a straight woman was a disaster - and had been the bane of Wendy's life.

Now, it could be changed.

But should it?

Briefly, Wendy wondered on the ethics of it. People could - with Cartman's drug - choose to go gay. But she wouldn't be letting her choose, she'd be _making _her gay. Did Wendy have any right to force that on her?

On the other hand: many hours of sex to make up for years of pining.

Decision made, and halfway through dialling Kenny's number, Wendy decided that her morals had distinctly gotten less pious as she'd grown up.

Or maybe she just wasn't a very nice person after all.

* * *

"Our top story tonight: a national magazine has produced an article declaring, with the backing of several medical professionals in the Denver area, that the rise in obesity in men is also leading to a rise in what the magazine flippantly calls 'ass cancer.' Over to Tom in Denver for more details."

Initially, Stan didn't think anything of it, barring the slightly incredulous realisation that the news anchors hadn't changed since he was ten. He placed a silent bet with himself that the midget in the bikini would be bringing him the sports at ten fifteen, and carried on watching.

"Thanks, Mike. Yes, _The National Blue _released their controversial article this morning as part of a new campaign on medical and ethical issues in the USA. Foremost in their spread was an article, written by one of their top journalists, claiming that obese men are running incredible risks of contracting and dying from aggressive forms of prostate cancer."

Stan blinked. _The National Blue_? Wasn't that the one Kyle had set up after returning to Denver after his divorce?

"The article has been hailed by several medical professionals and interest groups as breaking the silence on men's health issues in this country. The article makes for some interesting reading: the author refers consistently to the cancer as 'ass cancer', and terms it the major risk run by 'the fatasses of the nation.'"

Stan was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, waiting for the journalist to be named.

"That particular article was written by Kyle Broflovski, a former financial journalist in New York. He is also the co-founder of the magazine, along with former classmate Heidi Turner. Ms. Turner was reported as saying that, despite the magazine not being a newspaper, it was time to break into the current issues troubling and threatening the country today. Mr. Broflovski was unavailable for comment. Back to you, Mike."

"Thanks, Tom, shocking report!"

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. Holy Jesus. Okay, so he hadn't been exposed to the whole Kyle vs Cartman thing for...well, for a_ long _time. But he'd figured that it must have died now. Not _made national news_.

"...in a shocking loss to the Denver Broncos. Waiting in Dallas with more information is a midget in a bikini."

Oh, _fuck this_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, and make no profit from this work.**

* * *

**Four**

Cartman was waiting, leaning against his flash car, outside Kyle's apartment block the next morning.

"You fucking Jewish douchebag," he snarled, when Kyle exited the building.

"Hello to you too," Kyle said sourly, shrugging on his suit jacket. "Nice talking, but I have to go. I'm running late for work as it is."

"_Ass cancer_?" Cartman howled, clenching his fat fists. "Ass-fucking-cancer?"

"Ass fucking? Now that I didn't claim..."

"Shut your fucking trap!" Cartman roared. "I'll have you sued into the earth for this, you Jewish piece of shit! I'll..."

"On what grounds?" Kyle asked. "Slander? Libel? You can't. I never named you, Cartman. Not once did I even _refer _to your case. Not my problem if you _just happen _to be one of the _many _victims of prostate cancer, who is also obese. Not my problem."

"And how the fuck did you know?"

Kyle smirked. "I'm a journalist, Cartman. We're better than the police. Or the CIA, FBI, whatever. We will find out everything, and make up the rest."

"You're a _finance _journalist."

"Fancied a change," Kyle shrugged, and turned to go. "Keep an eye on the news, Cartman. You never know what might come up next."

* * *

The bar was...eh. It was seedy. There wasn't really a more appropriate adjective. Crackwhore-den smeared with remnants of cocaine and used needles, maybe, but that wasn't a singular adjective. So seedy it was.

And frankly, Wendy felt uncomfortable. And so she should: most of the men in the bar hadn't seen a woman in a suit since their last prosecution for drunk and disorderly behaviour, assault or soliciting sex from minors.

So when Kenny swayed into the bar like he was born there, she was actually (for the first time in her life) glad to see him.

"Wendy," he nodded, sinking into the sticky chair opposite. "Why here? Something you don't want Kyle to hear?"

"Something I don't want anyone to hear," she said firmly. "This stays between you and me, Kenny, you got that?"

Kenny shrugged. "Depends what it is."

"It _will _stay between you and me. Or I will let every right-wing Republican-voting bigot this side of the Rockies know that the _playboy _McCormick has gone gay. And see how long you last then, when the hicks get wind of _that_."

Kenny scowled at her.

Wendy waited.

"Fine," he snapped eventually, folding his arms on the table between them. "Go on then. Why have you called me out to this dump?"

"I want the other samples."

"What?"

"I want any remaining samples of that drug."

"You want...the gay drug?"

"Yes."

Kenny paused. He rolled his jaw, clicked his tongue, and said: "You want the drug?"

"For the last _fucking _time, Kenny, _yes_!"

"Okay, okay, Jesus," he muttered. "Women. Don't know why I ever liked your lot. God. Fine, Jesus. Why the hell do you want it anyway? Isn't that morally questionable?"

"I'm a _doctor_."

"That's my point."

"Kenny, there's barely a day when you can't question my morality and ethics in the hospital," she snarled. "And right now, I've had it up to here with this situation, and now Cartman's produced something that can change that situation, and you expect me not to take the chance? Hello? Wendy Testaburger, here!"

"Fair point," Kenny agreed, and grinned.

"What?"

"You're going to turn someone gay."

"Of course," Wendy snapped.

"Which means _you're _gay."

"What if I...?"

"No, it means you're after a straight girl," Kenny shook his head. "Because the only guy you ever held onto was Stan, and then suddenly you dropped him like a hot potato and didn't have a boy since. You're after a _girl_. Dyke."

"The term is bisexual," Wendy said waspishly.

But Kenny's brain was working. When it came to people, Kenny was on the ball. He _knew _people - knew them with the same innate sense and wickedness that Cartman knew them. And he'd been around Wendy long enough as a kid to...

"Oh wow," he said, and snickered. "Kyle's going to kill you."

"Kyle," Wendy said sharply, "will never find out."

"I think you're underestimating Kyle's bad-ass brain."

"He _won't _find out."

"Oh, right. Yeah. So when she goes gay _for you _right in the middle of a public crucifixion of Cartman for pioneering a homosexual drug, Kyle's not going to put two and two together."

"If he does," Wendy said, very low and dangerous, "then I'll know who told him. Won't I?"

Kenny went quiet for a moment, eyeing her warily. Then he said, "Yes, Ma'am," and prised himself from the sticky chair and out of the bar.

* * *

Stan and Kyle's relationship had been understandably rocky after Bebe's rapid change of tune about her love life. And hell, Stan couldn't _really _blame Kyle for his explosive reaction and rapid disappearance from Stan's life. He would've been pretty pissed too. But it wasn't like Stan had shagged Bebe while they were married, or even that he'd persuaded her to leave.

As a result of their long-term estrangement, Stan had absolutely no idea where Kyle lived now. They met at least once a month (and had for the last year) on the public basketball courts behind North Park High, in a desperate attempt to keep some semblence of friendship going - but that was more or less it. They didn't really goof off like they used to, and it was a bad combination of feelings. Kyle was still too hurt and angry, and Stan was too grateful that Kyle hadn't ditched him completely, for them to get back to where they were.

But with the resurrection (or, if it hadn't ever died, continuance) of the Kyle v. Cartman war, Stan knew that he couldn't let this slide. They'd endangered the country (and world) enough as kids, never mind know they were adults with salaries, money, property and networks to provide frightening ammunition.

Good God, the two would start a nuclear holocaust between them!

He did, however, know where Kyle worked. _The National Blue_'s main office was in the middle of Denver, on the third to sixth floors in a gleaming glass tower, with a faulty lift. So he hovered at the magazine's reception desk, ignoring the receptionist's dubious looks, until that familiar head of curly red hair came into view.

"Stan? What the hell?" Kyle threw at him, flashing his ID almost absently at the receptionist and speed-walking through the rows of cubicles to his personal office.

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm at work. Save it."

"It's _about _your work," Stan said.

"Oh right?" Kyle said, bursting into his office, throwing down his briefcase and picking up the ringing phone in one easy motion. "_The National Blue_, Broflovski speaking."

"That article was all about Cartman," Stan said.

Kyle rolled his eyes and scribbled _of course it was _on a scrap piece of paper. "Absolutely, Jonathon, run with it. If you can get Channel Four involved as well, then you have yourself an end-of-month bonus."

He slammed the phone down again as Stan said, "What the hell, Kyle? You're _still _going against Cartman?"

"I laid off at the end of high school and through college," Kyle shrugged, "but I kept an eye out. Which is just as well."

"Why?"

"Seen Kenny lately?"

Stan was thrown, and he frowned. "What? No, I haven't. What's that got to do with...?"

"Shut the door, sit down, and shut up."

Stan bristled. "Hey, no need to be a..."

"You want to know, or you want to get out? It's entirely your choice, Stan, I really don't care."

Stan did as he was told.

"Right," Kyle said. "Cartman works for a drug company."

"Yes."

"He's been focusing on a single research project with a single aim more-or-less since he got the job. We all know that the ethnic minorities - especially the Hispanic groups - are breeding faster than the Caucasian and white groups in America."

"Yeah..."

"Well, he's developed a drug that's going to reverse that trend," Kyle said, "in the name of saving white America."

Stan frowned. "That's not possible."

"It is, and we've got the proof," Kyle shrugged. "It's a gay drug, Stan. One dose and the patient becomes a flaming homosexual."

"That's _not _possible."

"Pay Kenny a visit for fifteen minutes, then come back here and tell me that's not possible."

Stan sat back, his brain working as fast as it could. Which was still slower than Kyle, but whatever. "But how...how did you know?"

"Because I kept an eye on what was going on. I'm a journalist, Stan, I have more contacts than the police and the mob put together."

"Well, sure," Stan said, "but why keep an eye on Cartman _now_? You've not kept an eye on him since school."

"Almost," Kyle said, and scowled himself. "But Cartman didn't let go of the vendetta either."

"What did he...?"

"He came to my wedding, Stan. For all of five minutes, but he came. And he tried to make a bet with me - that in five years, I would be single again. That Bebe would leave me."

Stan flinched.

"And when she turned round that night and said, 'I'm leaving you' and promptly shacked up with you, I got to wondering how exactly that had happened."

Comprehension began to dawn.

"He...?"

"The only reason I can _stand _seeing _your face_, and knowing that _you _are sleeping with the woman who is meant to be _my _wife is what I found out about Cartman's research," Kyle said bitterly. "The aim of the drug was always to make people gay, but the early form of the drug merely destroyed existing attachments. It made them stop being in love. And who was marked in his research as the first human test subject?"

"Bebe."

"Exactly. That's why I'm crusading against Cartman, Stan. And if you don't like it, well. You can just go fuck yourself."

* * *

That afternoon, Kyle sat back from his computer and cracked his knuckles. Done. It would be in the news by the morning. God, sometimes he loved this job.

"You sorted?"

It was Heidi. Heidi had never been Kyle's favourite person - bitchy, opinionated, forward and loudmouthed. She was the perfect journalist. She handled the feminine side of the magazine - fashion, housekeeping and so on and so forth, despite her complete lack of cleaning or culinary skills. But she and Kyle worked well together - both were the odd mix of 'votes Democrat, has no moral spine' that makes for a wonderful career in the media.

"Yep," he said. "It'll go to press in the morning and explode."

"Good," she said. "I've got the piece booked onto the morning news for Channel Four, CNN and Fox News. CNN in particular is going to have a field day with this."

"I'd like to see the Fox spin myself," Kyle muttered, forwarding the article to the relevant editors in the magazine. "Most of the papers have received a copy and most will run it. David's going on the radio tomorrow afternoon to push the business-liberal viewpoint."

"That company is going to fold like a stack of cards in a hurricane," Heidi muttered. "God, I love getting back at companies."

"Not Cartman?"

"Nah, the company. My Mom used to work for them," she pulled a face. "Never paid her enough. Anyway, are you taking tomorrow off to hide from the media storm?"

"Yep," Kyle nodded. "Lurk in my apartment and be a hermit. I've prepared the follow-up article - that should go out on Monday morning. Big impact after the weekend lull."

"Sure," Heidi paused. "Kyle? Is it all...true?"

"Yes."

"Wow," she said. "That's...wow. Scary wow."

Yeah, Heidi had never quite grasped the point of the English language. Or any language at all, really. But Kyle got the idea, and nodded along with her.

"He's going to lash right back," she said.

"Against what?" Kyle asked. "We have all the evidence. Source protection is what it is. The thief isn't affiliated with us and we can't be held responsible for it. We're home free."

"It's _Cartman_."

"You leave the fatass to me."

* * *

"Breaking news this morning, allegations are being brought against a major pharmaceutical company that one of its top researchers has developed a drug to convert people to homosexuality. _The National Blue _further claims that the idea behind the drug is to halt the birth rate in ethnic minority groups and return the USA to a whites-only society."

Stan felt like bouncing his head off the table.

"Thanks, Mike! That's right, journalist Kyle Broflovski this morning published a series of research papers written up by one Eric Cartman, that contain records of research into a drug that converts heterosexuals to homosexuals. In theory, the change is permanent. The papers show its effectiveness on mice, rats and apes. The magazine is claiming that some people may have already fallen victim to the drug in the public sector!"

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Stan breathed. "Sweet, holy, fucking Jesus. On a stick."

"Broflovski also produced a business plan supposedly written by the researcher outlining the reasoning behind his research. Frankly, Tom, I've had a look at the published plan, and it reads like something out of Nazi Germany. It refers to Mexicans and Cubans specifically, and claims to aid a return to, quote, 'the original white America and its values', end quote. The NAACP is up in arms about it, and Democrat senators have been crawling out of the woodwork to condemn the paper and point out Mr. Cartman's political leanings."

Stan switched the television off and put his head in his hands.

Because there was _no way _that Cartman was going to take this lying down.


End file.
